


You Own Me, A Piece of Property

by The_Eternally_Gay_Hedgehog



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, Poor thing, SO SORRY, WHY IS THIS SO SAD, all of you, and turned into sexual abuse, armin is an orphan, but then it got depressing, im crying, im sorry, this was supposed to be eremin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:57:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1670468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Eternally_Gay_Hedgehog/pseuds/The_Eternally_Gay_Hedgehog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Armin Arlert has been an orphan for as long as he can remember. He has been thrown out, beat up, and starved. Every foster home has found a reason to get rid of him until, finally, he meets Him. This new "father" of his is perfect. At least, until the sun goes down. A short story where Armin is sexually abused by his foster father. Its not as dumb as it sounds I promise. Summaries are the death of me ok.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Own Me, A Piece of Property

**Author's Note:**

> Hey thanks so much for reading this   
> If you'd like my tumblr, it is endlesslygay.tumblr.com

“You're beautiful, almost like a girl,” you hear Him say. His words slur together as He leans over you and His eyes travel over your whimpering form.

 You wrinkle your nose and gag as the stench of his intoxicated breath hits you. The rank odor of Grey Goose surrounds you; drowns you. You find it tragically amusing that you can recognize the brand of poison He has ingested on this night from merely a whiff of His breath. It's not that hard; it's become routine.

Scotch on Sunday

Rum on Monday

Gin on Tuesday

Beer on Wednesday

Whisky on Thursday

Brandy on Friday

And vodka on Saturday to finish the week off with a bang. 

It's become routine.

Day after day, week after week, month after month. He makes it home from work and opens the cabinet. He drinks away His problems, replacing his anguish with lust, a lust for you in particular, and has His way with you.

It's become routine.

 Away from home isn't much better. You're constantly answering questions:

'Can I come over and study?'

'No'  _He might get mad_

'Do you want to go swimming after school?'

'No'  _What if the brands scattered across your body are seen?_

'Will you go out with me?'

'No'  _He might get jealous_

It's become routine.

You are yanked back to reality by His lips against yours. The foul taste of the alcohol that by now has probably ingrained itself into his tongue infects your mouth. Shame and regret creep into the crevices between your teeth and shove themselves down your throat. Your stomach clenches and you double over, wrenching yourself from His grasp.

Hit by an overwhelming dread, you realize too late the gravity of what you have done.

“Damn it Armin!” His screams confirm your fears. “You're mine you snivelin’ shit! Or didya forget?!” He grabs your overgrown hair, hair that He would never let you shear off even when it covered your eyes and reached the small of your back, and pulls your face up to meet His.

“I saved you from the system,” His screams soften, “That makes you rightfully mine. Right?!” His eyes widen, filling with despair, “Right?!” He yelps. His voice chokes up, and a crazed look implants itself within His facial features as if fending off invisible attackers.  

He defends Himself from the judgment He fears and deserves. This judgment, of course, will never come, for there are no witnesses to His crime save for the whimpering blonde beneath him. The weak and undeserving fool that is you. His eyes darken once again and his grip on you tightens.

Your vision becoming blurry, so you squeeze your eyes shut and wait for the seven words, the seven prison walls, that surround you and define your very existence.

**_“You belong to me and only me.”_ **

His lips brush against your ear and you flinch.

“Dontcha forget it,” He whispers menacingly. His words slur together. You can hear the venom present in every word he utters, and it fills the air with a need, His need, for your complete obedience. 

You are suddenly faced with an eerie silence. The only sound you hear is His labored breathing laced with a malicious desire that you know all too well. You let your eyes crack open and are faced with His own set of irises.

Colored a murky green-brown, you remember when those same eyes seemed so beautiful and full of hope. You remember when the emotion exuding out of them was love, the love of a father or a guardian. Back then his eyes lacked this want, this primal need that is consuming the pupils before you.

His eyes flicker, recognizing the hurt that He has caused. Even in His drunken state He is still capable of the regret that you can see in the creases of His forehead and the sudden watering of His eyes. He exhales and strangling sounds escape His mouth as His lips move and search for the words that will fix the damage that has been done, but the boundaries have been crossed. “You love me-“ He falters, “you love me right?” The words escape His mouth.

Millions of thoughts and actions pass through your brain, different scenarios, but you know that there is only one that will allow you to make it out of this situation unscathed, or at least as unscathed as possible.

“Yes,” you whisper, so quietly that you can barely hear it yourself, but it does the trick. He sighs and kisses you once again, relieved, and this time you do not make the same mistake as before.

You endure, you accept, it's become routine.

His hands move and briskly creep down your spine.You can feel a calloused finger slip itself under the waistband of your ratty jeans. He bought these jeans for you when you were first put under His care. They were a peace offering, nothing special, but it was the best He could do, and you were happy. It seems like a sick joke that you would still wear them now, but you do not own much clothing, and so you don't have much of a choice. 

You dig your nails into the scarred skin of your palms and try to hold back the shiver of disgust that so wishes to escape your being, but it is too late.The tremor travels up your spine and allows a short but audible gasp to escape your lips. 

You ready yourself for the agony that is soon to afflict your left cheek, for the deafening sound of his coarse voice to berate you, but it never comes.A groan of pleasure escapes His windpipe, your cry of objection mistaken for a moan of desire. 

 You feel in His movements a roughness that depicts the desperation and grief He wishes to conceal. It is a grief that you recognize as having seen many times before. This grief was present when He surrendered to the creatures that told Him He could never be the father that you deserved.This grief  was present when His fatherly love was tainted.

The need to protect you regressed into the need for your protection.

The need to support you warped into the need for your support.

You attempted to console Him, but you soon learned that your sympathy was plaguing dead ears. His anguish was caused by something too deep within His soul and His past for you to remedy with kind words and a tender embrace.

He was manageable during the day, and at choice times even gentle. He was the best of the foster parents yet, but nothing in your life could be that perfect. The sun would set, and the monsters that had woven themselves into His soul would slither out to play. They would steal away His sanity and drown Him in alcohol and lust.

At first, the drunken rages that overtook Him did not involve you, and you were able to hide as He made His rampages throughout the house. But, of course, that did not last long for the beasts wanted desperately to include you in their schemes. 

It was a dark, stagnant, summer night when you were first enveloped by his madness. He had stumbled the stairs. He had been drunk off His ass and unable to form a complete thought when He had forced you down and let His animalistic instincts take control. He had His way with you, and when the haze lifted and He saw what he had done, he had sobbed and asked for your forgiveness. He made promises that, at first you believed, but as the actions of that night were repeated time and time again, you realized the emptiness of those vows.

You are brought back to the present by His kisses traveling downwards. They sting your neck with marks that are hard enough to feel, but, of course, not hard enough to leave a mark. Even when overcome by the drunken haze that you are so used to seeing, He is much too smart for that.

He unbuttons your jeans, cold fingers freezing the skin of your lower abdomen, and you can feel the world begin to fade away as your body exercises the only coping mechanism it has left.

You have always had an uncanny ability to disconnect from reality, and it causes you to constantly be scolded for daydreaming in class by many of your teachers. You never expected it to be very useful, but it has surprisingly become rather essential to your sanity. Without it you would have given up long ago.

You empty your mind, and find it is much easier than it used to be.

Its become routine.

Your eyes glaze over, and your sight dims to a haze. You embrace this escape from agony, but before you can disconnect entirely you hear a voice. The words that this voice verbalize give you chills, but you cannot stop the fading of your consciousness. Even after you are gone, however, you can still here them repeat. Again, and again, and again- 

 

**_You are a possession_ **

**_An object, a fake_ **

**_Your sanity has fallen_ **

**_And soon will break_ **

**_Your life has no point_ **

**_If you could even call it a life at all_ **

**_Your feelings-_ **

**_What feelings?_ **

**_For you have none at all._ **

 

You will endure. Day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year.

It doesn't matter right?

For it's just a routine.

 


End file.
